


i hope the rising black smoke carries me far away.

by blothundr



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Angst, Betrayal, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Desolation!Tim, Emotional Hurt, Fear, Fear of Death, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Control, Loss of Identity, Loss of Trust, M/M, The Desolation, Timothy Stoker has Anger Issues, Trauma, Violence, desolation tim, he makes me go AWOOGA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27521830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blothundr/pseuds/blothundr
Summary: Case #0201112Statement of Timothy Stoker, regarding his life after The Unknowing, his transition to The Desolation, and subsequent feelings.Oh, and Jonathan fucking Sims.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	i hope the rising black smoke carries me far away.

**Author's Note:**

> hello i have barely written in like a good bit  
> so here  
> throws this at you at terminal velocity  
> i wrote this in less than an hour at 1 am  
> enjoy i just have a lot of feelings ok  
> cant stop thinking abt tim so much that i forgot how 2 tag enjoy gamers no romance only sad we die like men

You all know how Danny went. You all heard his story, of the clown that tore off his skin. 

You all know what happened next. I joined the institute, you know? Bright futures, new starts, left my entire life and career behind to get some information behind what the _hell_ happened to my brother. Sad, really, it's pretty pathetic now that I have hindsight to back me up. I should have never gotten into Smirke, never gotten into the Stranger, I would have been lucky if the Beholding took me. That would have been something merciful. But it didn't, and now I'm trapped here.

Yeah, yeah. Let's all laugh at Timothy Stoker, standing before an audience as the circus takes away everything he loves. Danny, Sasha, Jon, Martin, himself. Well, I never _loved_ myself in the first place. 

I'm getting off track again, aren't I? I've never been good at these things, even with all of your _fucked up_ eye powers. 

That night was my _sweet release,_ my final break from an awful life I had been handed. I wanted to die, and get everything over with. Pressing that button was the _slowest_ second of my life. When my finger sunk into it and it sent out that signal, and we were overwhelmed by the fire and the bombs, I don't entirely remember it being just a few seconds. It was _years_. I remember how the fire licked at my skin as it encroached, the force slamming against my body and beating into me, melting my skin and ruining everything I was. I remember that fucking clown, _Grimaldi_ , being the last face I ever saw. Not-face, I should say. The plastic melted and burned and curled up, and she didn't even have enough time to change it one final fucking time. You can kill just about anything with enough C4, _hell_ , I'm sure you could have toppled the _Panopticon_ with how much we used to floor that place.

I expected death. You know, as anyone _normally_ should. A few tons of explosives usually does that to a person. You don't survive being in the center of a blast after getting the shit rocked out of you by something so beyond human comprehension you couldn't even process it while it was happening. _"Do you even remember how to make a fist?"_ **_Fuck off._**

You can understand my shock when I opened my eyes. I expected to see hell, and in that moment I actually feared death. I've never feared death before, you know? It's something that I've grown used to as an inevitability. But all I could wonder was if this was it. If this was really my ending. I expected to walk through some _big burning gates_ into a wasteland, or maybe even cease being. To simply not exist. 

The final, final thing I expected was to feel my fingers curl against rock and rebar. The pain I was in didn't strike me for a very long time as I slipped in and out of reality. The moment my nerves fired up with my lagging brain chugging along, I felt it. 

The fire began in my chest, growing and spreading and consuming each organ as it caught, all along where my horrifying scars were. Well, I didn't know they were there _at the time,_ but I do now. It filled every inch under my skin, burning away at my muscles and blood and veins and melting them and changing them. The fire still burns to this day. And I sobbed, I'll admit it. I cried and I screamed, but nothing came out. All I could muster out of my twitching, torn throat was ash and rock. 

It took another few hundred years to focus on the sunlight that poked out of the rubble above me. My thoughts? _I'm not dead. Oh no, I'm not dead. Why aren't I dead? Why am I not dead?_ I could only watch the sun change as I tried to grasp time beyond the burning and the suffering and the agony. 

Not exactly my proudest moment, I'd say.

I don't know how long it was before the rubble twitched and moved. A construction team, made to clear up the debris after it was deemed safe enough to fix up and rebuild. I didn't feel anything as they hauled me out and wrapped me in a safety blanket. I barely remember that day, I only remember being weak and tired and in so, so much pain. More pain that I'd ever been in in my entire life. I'm so tragic, I _know._

When paramedics came to rescue me, I killed them. It was so easy, watching their skin melt and blood boil under the grasp of my hand around their throat like sticky hot clay and wax, peeling away in visceral strings that drip down onto the floor below. I don't know why the sight made me feel so _alive_ , made the fire move elsewhere, but I understood quite quickly. These men didn't deserve it. But I just wanted to push this on them. My pain, my suffering, my agony, all of it. No one deserves this, but someone has to feel my pain. _I can't be the only one._

The workers went down easy too.

They all begged and cried and pleaded with me. Their families, their wives, their children. They won't survive without me! Bah. You know, those are the words that made the fire in my veins stop burning and start searing. Spreading, equally all across my body. What was left of their bodies was quickly shriveled up to nothing, left to be forgotten in the smoldering ruins of The House of Wax. Just like me. 

It took about a month of running around and getting used to my new body, my new hands, my new mind, that I finally realized where the anger was coming from.

It came from _you_ , Jon.

I wanted nothing more than to fall over your shoulder and cry, beg for some kind of forgiveness. I just wanted to hold your face like the old times and kiss you like you still loved me. Like I still _loved_ you. And _yeah_ , I still want to, but I want to see it melt. I want to see you scream and cry and beg for me to release you from this death grip as you shrivel away into _nothing_. Do you remember Agnes Montague, and her love-struck boyfriend? Something like that. But worse. I want to see those precious eyes bubble away and melt. 

Once again, getting ahead of myself. Back to the statement.

The desire to come into the archives, arms open wide for some kind of happy reunion, had left my mind. You were a _fucked up_ stalker who didn't even try to find me, and Martin was your lost little puppy. You're both awful, _awful_ people. Even after your whole _coma_ situation, you still forgot about me and went back to reading statements. You read and you read and I doubt you even once thought about me, suffering. _Dying_. Living once more. You didn't even look, and I know that, because you never said shit. Nothing to me, nothing about me. I was just another rung on the ladder to be used up by your cruel fucking hands. 

I hadn't even gotten the chance to get over Sasha. 

It's very hard to deal with the Desolation when you have a lot of emotions, you know? Mourning, regret, guilt, all will make you _hesitate_ , and the fire won't light. So, I let the Desolation burn all that away, eat it up in hot licks of flame and turn it to nothing but ash. I let it burn everything I was away, and twist me like wax into the perfect little avatar. What else was I to do, _hm?_ I have _nowhere_ to go, _nothing_ to do, so it was a very nice change of pace to not have to give a shit anymore every time I see a man or a woman sobbing for help as I do nothing but press my hand into their face. If anything, I find comfort in it. _I look forward to it._

The only thing that was stopping me from waltzing in and burning you alive was that _Hunter_ of yours. The cop. Never liked cops, fucking _hate_ those bastards. I came once, while you were fucked off somewhere, and she found me and tore me to shreds. I survived, _clearly_. But it wasn't fun being a bleeding corpse for a few days. Really not the most _pleasant_ of experiences. Didn't appreciate it.

When I finally decided to make my move, the Archives had been decimated by multiple avatars, and the Hunter was gone. But... so were you and Martin. Fucked off somewhere, not really sure where. I'm not all knowing. No matter who I talked to, who I threatened, who I actually burned... they said you weren't here. You wouldn't be here for weeks. You ran away, _like always._

I'm not sure what makes me angrier; your _betrayal_ , or your _cowardice_. Pathetic thing. 

When the eyes opened in the sky, however... I felt _relief._

As fear washed over me and the world around me warped, changed, the sudden sense of _belonging_ filled me. I knew somewhere, outside, out in that hellscape over the horizon, you were suffering. You were all powerful and you were _suffering_ for it. I've never been happier. I spent so long in my domain, reveling in the feeling of being wanted, needed, _happy_. _"We must all suffer"_ my ass, I have never felt so welcome somewhere in my _life_. The flames burned brighter than ever, rising in my gut and my arm and my leg and my throat and behind my eye. It was the closest thing to divine I have ever felt, not in a sexual way. 

And now you're **_here_** , encroaching on my life. On my final, final happiness. Do I not deserve this? I have suffered, and I have _suffered_ , and I have **_suffered_**. For years and years there has been no end to the agony and pain that has taken over my life. You have taken **_everything_ **from me, Jonathan Sims. You took my dignity, you took my pride, you took my love, my heart, my soul, my mind, my life. _I loved you._

For once in my sorry, pitiful life, I belong.

**_...and you're ripping this away too._ **


End file.
